THE
MOURNING
WAVE
A NOVEL of the GREAT STORM
Gregory Funderburk
THE MOURNING WAVE
by Gregory Funderburk
© Copyright 2020 Gregory Funderburk
ISBN 978-1-64663-177-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
REVIEW COPY: This is an advanced printing subject to corrections and revisions.
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For Weldon and Patricia
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall receive comfort.
–Matthew 5:4
There is an alchemy in sorrow.
–Pearl S. Buck
1
HENRY
Saturday, September 8, 1900
Galveston, Texas
Even before dawn, the Gulf was roiling. By mid-morning, the city began to flood. Sister Elizabeth Ryan had bogged down quickly after leaving town. From the front of the wagon, she squinted ahead blindly into the rain, looking for the large golden cross atop the girls dormitory building. She kept thinking it must be just beyond her sight, but another whole hour passed before she made out the steep angle of the building’s roof. Feeling a keen sense of relief, she realized she’d been at the edge of the wagon’s bench and clenching her teeth for three hours.
Henry emerged from the blur of wind and water, trudging toward her through the saltwater. He was yelling something, but whatever it was, it didn’t survive the din. She nodded her head in the affirmative, agreeable to anything as he took the horse’s bridle, leading it with the wagon toward the entrance of the building. He helped her down into the water, pointing her toward the porch. Stalwart Henry.
“I’ll unload!” he shouted. “Sister Camillus moved the boys over. Everyone’s in there.”
“Let the horse loose!” she shouted back. He said he would with an exaggerated nod.
Henry emptied the wagon of the supplies she’d brought from town and unhitched the horse. The water was nearing its belly now. Of the nine sisters, he knew this Irish one, Elizabeth, was the best with the horses and with the wagon. Even so, it was remarkable she’d made it back. Henry looked over at the boys dorm to the west. Empty, it looked small and vulnerable. He patted the horse on the neck, stepped back, and gave it a brisk swat on its hindquarters.
“Ho, now!” The sound came from his barrel chest.
The horse darted through the geyser-like sprays of the breakers, before turning from the sea for higher ground. Henry watched it disappear with a furious beauty into the blinding rain. He looked at the boys building again. It looked still smaller in the distance. Henry retrieved the white blouses and skirts blowing horizontally in the ripping wind from the nearby clothesline and stepped out of the floodwaters and onto the porch. Dropping the sopping laundry at the foot of the large ceramic crucifix just inside the entrance, he took up the axe and the blanket he’d left at the door. He handed the blanket to Sister Elizabeth.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.
“Why did you come back?” he replied.
“What needs to be done?”
“Go on up,” he said, shouldering the axe. “I’ll put the food away when I finish down here.”
With the blanket over her shoulders, Elizabeth complied as Henry marked out intervals around the perimeter of the great room with his eyes. A dozen children gathered at the rails of the atrium balcony to watch him. He hated that they had to see this. Raising the blade, he brought it down with all the force stored in his large frame. The hard wood floor gave way to five well-struck blows and the sea quickly gurgled up. As water flooded the expansive floor, he moved to the next spot, then the next.
“What’s he doing?” Albert Campbell asked Sister Elizabeth at the railing.
“The weight of the water will keep us in place,” she told the boy.
“But there’ll be holes all over the floor,” Sister Raphael whispered to Sister Elizabeth. “The little ones may fall in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will care for itself,” said Sister Camillus from behind them.
Sister Camillus had taken charge of the orphanage only last month when the elderly Mother Joseph who had cared for the St. Mary’s children here on the beach for the last quarter century had died. Like Elizabeth, Sister Camillus was from Dublin. Only thirty-one, she’d proven poised and decisive already in her short tenure.
“Mother Gabriel finally let me go,” Elizabeth said to her. “Mr. Unger helped me load the wagon. It took me three hours. She said I was to give you this.” She handed Sister Camillus a small silver crucifix. “It was Mother Joseph’s. Mother Gabriel said it belonged here on the beach with us. It’s been through all the storms.”
“We must take them up,” Sister Camillus said calmly holding the cross before her. Sister Raphael nodded and herded the children away from the rail, then upward to the third floor which was no more than a large attic, its ceiling the underlayment of the building’s high roof.
“I’m afraid we may be out of floors before the night’s gone,” Elizabeth said to Sister Camillus after they left. “The Gulf and the bay tremble for one another.”
“Sister Elizabeth, when Henry is finished, have him bring me all the clothesline from storage he can find.” Elizabeth assented and descended the stairs to Henry.
“We must stay with the little ones,” she told Henry, passing along the instruction, both of them knowing what Sister Camillus had in mind. Henry shook his head.
“Ma’am, that will be trouble.”
“We shall pull the children to safety.”
“Or be drowned together.”
“We must stay with the little ones,” Elizabeth repeated. Henry shook his head again and did as he was told.
2
SISTER CAMILLUS
At seven o’clock, the wind shifted. What followed was not a wave, but the sea itself. The dome of water building offshore released, swallowing not just the beach and the first two floors of the St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum, but the whole island. On the third floor, though farther from the kelpy depths of the ocean, the children and the sisters found themselves closer to the storm above. A locomotive traversed the roof every few moments. When it did, the children, all wrapped up in blankets, ducked down instinctively. The room seemed to be choking.
Sister Camillus had been last to leave the second floor. The sea had flooded forward, bounding up from the first floor in a single instant, chasing her up the narrow stairwell to the third floor, where she paused in prayer, reset her expression, and joined the children and the other sisters. Looking out over them all, she resolved here to do what her predecessor, Mother Joseph, would have done. It was Mother Joseph who organized the building of both the hospital and the orphans’ home in the city long ago. It was Mother Joseph who had insisted the Order move the orphanage west of the city away from the threat of disease following the catastrophic yellow fever epidemics over a quarter century before, and it was Mother Joseph’s voice sh
e now heard when she prayed. So, she would pray. Then she would do what was next. Then she would pray. Then do what was next until morning came, willing their survival by incantation and efficiency.
Walking the floor, Sister Camillus touched each child on the head, tucking blankets up underneath their feet, offering encouragement, until she reached a fourteen-year-old boy named Will Murney. Will, too earnest for his age, saw matters in an uncomplicated light and did not varnish his opinions.
“God ought to stop all this presently, ma’am,” he said.
“Yes, Will. Listen to me now. Each sister shall have charge over nine children. You’re to be with Sister Elizabeth. Count the children with her. Help her until morning, Will. Nine.”
Will did the math. “Sister, there are ninety-three children and ten of you. It doesn’t square.”
“Sister Catherine, Sister Vincent, and I will have ten. You are the oldest with Sister Elizabeth. Make sure she has nine. All night, Will Murney. Nine.” She looked at him as Mother Joseph would have.
“I will,” he promised.
“You will,” she confirmed, then continued on in the near darkness. When she saw one of the sisters place her hand to her mouth in fear, she urged calm. When she saw signs of despair, she scolded.
“Be not anxious, Sister,” she said to Sister Finbar, who was only a few years older than some of those in the orphanage’s care. “But resolute.”
Sister Camillus, still holding the silver cross in her hands, continued around the room, encouraging the children, tucking in blankets and buttoning up coats, until she reached Henry, who held several loops of clothesline at his waist like a lasso. He shook his head, reasserting the objections he’d made to Sister Elizabeth earlier, but extended the braided rope to her. She took it, thanking him. Henry, staunch and reliable, had refused to go home when she had told him to return to his family at noon, yet she knew he lacked the faith in the miraculous on which she understood their fate now depended. It made his decision to stay all the more impressive.
“Keep this, Henry,” she said, giving him Mother Gabriel’s cross. “For me. Keep it.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said and put it his pocket.
Stalwart Henry.
3
THE CHILDREN OF ST. MARY’S
Henry measured out the clothesline for Sister Camillus, holding it taut for her to cut with his sharpest knife. He said nothing to her now, knowing we are not always responsible for our last acts. Her fingers faltered as she sliced through the cord with his blade. With the line, she then moved around the dark room apportioning an equal length to each sister to tether their children to them.
Will was counting Sister Elizabeth’s children when he saw that Clement Beardshy, a small boy with deer-like eyes, had wandered off with his friend, Charlie Sharkey. Charlie held a glass bowl full of water to his chest. Inside it, his two goldfish, Miguel and Athena, darted about, circling one another anxiously.
“Come on back to Sister Elizabeth, Clement?”
“I got the willies,” he replied. “We’re cold.”
Will rubbed Clement’s arms and wrapped him up tighter, then did the same for Charlie.
“Which one’s which, Charlie? Is that Athena?” Will asked, pointing at one of the fish.
Charlie shook his head. “Miguel,” he said. “I think. It’s dark.”
“Clement, come on back. You’re with Sister Elizabeth. Charlie’s with Sister Catherine.”
“Do we have to sleep up here in the attic?” Clement asked. “It’s a little witchy up here.”
“We’ll see, Clement. Maybe the storm’ll spend itself. I’ll get you another blanket.”
Sister Camillus had evenly distributed the children by age, the oldest being eighteen, and younger children, the youngest being two years old, with each sister. When Will returned with Clement, Sister Elizabeth was struggling with two toddlers, Elmer Miller and Ida Powell—one at each shoulder. When she tried to lower them to the floor, they locked their legs around her snugly, tenaciously. Each time the thunder clapped, Elmer wailed into her ear while the little wide-eyed Ida whispered into the other, “Mama, Mama, Mama.”
After depositing Clement with the others, Will joined Sister Elizabeth near the door to the stairwell leading back down to the second floor. “Want me to take Elmer?” he asked.
“I don’t think he’ll have it. Just help me with the others, Will.” Before he could turn, water began to trickle up and over the threshold. The trickle quickly became a spilling flow. Both of them backed away, reconsolidating their little tribe as salty water sloshed toys and dolls forward. Some letter blocks collected at their feet. Each sister, seeing this separately, gently pushed their children more densely to the middle of the third floor, forming into a single mass.
When Sister Elizabeth had attached eight children together, she motioned to Will. He shook his head. Nearby, Frank Madera, at the end of Sister Genevieve’s line, watched this exchange and quietly loosened the knot around his own waist.
Most of the lanterns had now been extinguished, leaving only three. They cast three small, yellow circles of light above the children and the sisters in the center of the room. Their penumbra, a thin hovering glow, persisted even as the house continued to groan again beneath their feet.
Sister Elizabeth, still holding Elmer and Ida, gathered the rest of her group closer to her with Will’s help. The storm was now locking in on them singularly, a dragon inside a whirlwind. Will lifted two hands, showing nine fingers to Elizabeth. Her nod back heartened him. She had the toddlers at her hips now. Will thought coming to the Almighty with evidence of their pressing need like this might spur rescue, but so far tonight, silence was God’s only voice. Instead, now near seven o’clock, another low grinding noise rumbled up the building’s beams. It sounded like a large herd of horses chewing oats, until a loud crack sounded, echoing throughout the space. The building then rose up off its foundation, pitching forward and began to roll at the whim of the venomous sea.
4
THE QUEEN OF THE Waves
Sister Felicitus’s lips formed a prayer in her native German as the building began to rock back and forth. Sister Raphael held her children tight. Sister Elizabeth moved around the edge of her group, trying to conceal the restlessness natural to those at risk awaiting still greater crisis. It took profound resolve simply to receive the heightened awareness the approach of death brings. Sister Vincent’s children began to sing a French hymn she had taught them long before. Her father, a French fisherman, had taught it to her when she was young, explaining how French sailors had sung it when seeking Divine protection from storms.
Queen of the Waves look forth across the ocean,
From north to south, from east to stormy west,
See how the waters with tumultuous motion,
Rise up and foam without pause or rest.
The other sisters took up a protective formation around the boys and girls as more began to sing, countering their terror with chorus.
But fear we not, tho’ storm clouds round us gather,
Thou are our Mother and the little Child,
Is the All Merciful, our Loving Brother,
God of the Sea and the tempest wild.
Clement Beardshy had overcome the willies, but his face expressed a pitiful outrage as he sang. His normal look, an innocent, almost oblivious one, a shepherd boy in a Bible painting, had become wolfish, his teeth bared.
Help, then sweet Queen, in our exceeding danger,
By thy seven griefs, in pity, Lady, save.
Think of the Babe that slept within the manger,
And help us now, dear Lady of the Wave.
Elizabeth leaned closer to Will and whispered into his ear. “Remember these children, Will. Every one.” She removed her rosary beads and placed them over his head and around his neck. The house tipped under them at a reckless angle.
“Are we to die?” he asked blinking rapidly.
Her response was soft, but penetrated the crash of the storm. “You are not. You are strong. Remember all who perish. Even me.” She touched her rosary beads around his neck. “Be a servant to the least. It is the path on which God is found.” She began to weep, but swallowed, brushed her tears away, and smiled at him. He was never even close to forming a response.
Over her shoulder, through the dark, Will saw Sister Felicitas, a child in her arms. Henry stood behind her with his hands against the building’s western wall. He seemed to be holding it up on his own. In ten thousand indelible ways, Will’s heart was imprinted with the knowledge that no matter how large the universe, he would never think of any woman or man as small ever again.
Up to thy shrine, we look and see the glimmer,
Thy votive lamp sheds down on us afar.
Light of our eyes, oh, let it ne’er grow dimmer,
Till in the sky, we hail the morning star.
As thunder boomed down on them, Will moved to Clement, checked the clothesline, and mussed his hair. He was next to the Simpson brothers. John was only four and his brother, Charlie was eight. John pulled on the line between them. Charlie pulled back.
“Will,” they said without fear. “Sister Felicitus says we look like mountain climbers.”
5
ALBERT CAMPBELL
Will watched and listened as Sister Elizabeth spoke to each of the children tied to her. Something had come over her. She had taken on the manner of a kind priest speaking to the dying, giving last rights. He had seen Father Kirwin administer the last rites once to a sick child. Like Father Kirwin had done, Sister Elizabeth was not using simply liturgical words. She was speaking to each child in a way they would understand. Sister Elizabeth knew each of their stories. What had brought them here. She spoke in a calm and steady voice despite all that was happening around them. She spoke as if she’d seen heaven.
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